


Katsuki Yuuri vs The World

by hopefullyanauthor



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fluff, M/M, Romantic Comedy, VictUuri, Victuri, and hamsters, many puns and much silliness, phichit is wallace, puns, the lightest of angst, victor is ramona, yuuri is scott
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-09-25 14:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9824927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefullyanauthor/pseuds/hopefullyanauthor
Summary: ““MR KATSUKI!! I CHALLENGE YOU TO A DUEL!” cried the stranger, who appeared to be wearing a rather glamorous purple cape and catsuit, as well as a full face-and-a-half of makeup.“I,” he intoned theatrically, “am the first of the Alliance of the Seven Deadly Rivals! We are the string of broken hearts and souls left behind by the man you love - Victor Nikiforov!”Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World AU filled with much silliness and eventual victuuri.





	1. Yuuri Katsuki: Certified Human Failure

**Author's Note:**

> Hi YOI fandom! This is my first fic on this site, and for a long while IRL, so I hope you enjoy it! Please forgive the zaniness, it...it just kind of happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i'm uploading a revised version of this chapter now, since i have the lovely whalefairyfandom12 to beta this fic! <33

Yuuri Katsuki was a mess. He knew this because he had been told so about three times today. This was the fourth time.

“You’re such a mess, you know?” his sister groaned down the phone.

“Yeah,” Yuuri sighed. “I did.” He stared at the grey sea, stretching out to the even greyer horizon-line. It looked far too cold for the few brave souls going for a morning swim, but Yuuri was almost inclined to wade in himself, just to see how far he could get before he was swallowed by water.

“Can't you just tell the guy no?”

“Ah...”

“You already said yes, didn't you? God, you're a mess.”

“Yeah, you said.” Was that the ocean he heard or was Mari just sighing really loudly?

“Ugh, I've got to get back to work. Those towels won't distribute themselves. See you.”

“Bye,” Yuuri was about to say, but Mari had hung up already.

He wasn't sure why she still worked in their parents' onsen; it wasn't like it was exciting or anything but maybe his own career had made him a bit of a snob. Even though he was now officially A Certified Human Failure, he had actually travelled around the country and the world a fair bit for various skating competitions. After seeing that there was more to the world than towels and katsudon Yuuri found Hasetsu rather small.

He had done well at skating too--it was his passion. Well enough to compete at an international level, but sadly not quite well enough to keep him there. Yuuri winced as the memories of his flubbed jumps and shaky presentation at the last GPF fought to overtake him again, but he pushed them back down (deep, deep, deep down) into the already over-full Repression Zone of his brain.

Honestly, he was lucky to even have a job at the moment after a flop like that. He'd already decided to retire, there was no way he'd be able to face any competition now. But he could still skate, he hadn't lost his abilities just because he'd Failed.

So when, against everyone's expectations, the Junior National Champion for Japan, Kenjirou Minami, had asked Yuuri to coach him in preparation for his first season in the senior division, he'd taken the opportunity straight away. It wasn't like he’d been busy.

Yuuri sighed again and checked the time. 6:30. He got up, making the bench creak grumpily.

“I'm sorry, I have to go if I'm going to get any sleep tonight.”

The bench creaked again.

“Yes, I know he's only 17. I'm not stupid.”

Another, more sceptical creak.

“Oh shut up.”

 

It took Yuuri about twenty minutes to walk back to the cruddy flat where he shared two rooms (but just one mattress, though he wasn't about to let his sister know that) with his best friend from college. And about a million hamsters. He flopped onto their one shabby chair after doing the routine pet-check.

“Hey Yuuri,” said Phichit without looking around the stove, “Are you really-”

“Yes.”

“And is he really-”

“Yes.”

“Wow.” Phichit smirked. “Does this count as a mid-life crisis? Is it some sort of sign you'll die sooner?”

Yuuri turned face first into the chair, hoping it would eat him after the ocean had failed to do so. A hamster with a brown nose came and sat on his head. “How do you know anyway?” he whined through the cushions as Phichit put a plate of omelette beside his  
feet.

“Mari told her best friend.”

“Oh. Right.” Yuuri turned back groggily and took a forkful of his half of the omelette, struggling to balance the hamster. After so much time spent with Phichit he didn't bother questioning his methods. The man was an Instagram menace.

“Oh God, this is really bad isn't it?” he asked the universe in a voice laced with sadness and egg. The universe shrugged. It had enough to do without Yuuri's weird life to deal with as well.

Minami was cute, it had to be said. Yuuri wasn't about to break down their coach-student relationship with anything even stupider than what he was already doing, but Minami was just so...keen.

“Ohmigosh, I'm actually being coached by Yuuri Katsuki, this is too cool!” he gushed. They met outside the Hasetsu Ice Castle the next morning, bright and early. (Or in Yuuri’s case just early. A couple of months away from skating had made him forget how much he hated mornings.)

Yuuri smiled wanly. “Shall we go in?”

Minami nodded emphatically, and began to squirm even more once they saw the rink itself. “This was where you learned to skate, and now I'm skating here- wow. Just wow.”

“If you like it, we can make it your home rink,” Yuuri said, watching Minami's face light up so much he thought he'd bust a fuse.

He'd been lucky with his timing when it came to Minami's routines – they were already half choreographed once he'd agreed to coach him, so all Yuuri had to do was sit back and see which areas needed development to best reflect his strengths. Minami was incredibly gifted when it came to step sequences, and he had a good ear for rhythm, so the heavy work was mostly on the jumps, his previous coaches not having judged him ready for some of them until now.

Yuuri had asked around in the few weeks before Minami arrived in Hasetsu for advice on how to teach, but his replies were mostly that he had to get experience, which obviously he didn't have any time for. This meant that his 'coaching' style as of now sounded more like strings of advice rather than any sort of structured teaching, but he hoped he would work it out at some point. It wasn't as if his student really minded; the occasional “keep your shoulders relaxed” or “straighten your free leg earlier” seemed to be working out for now. It was the long term that Yuuri was worried about – there was no way he'd get this kid through any sort of competition with his lack of...well, anything, really. And it was frankly disheartening that he'd let himself get low enough not to care that much about it.

But, he had to admit, the kid showed lots of promise. Watching Minami was like looking back on himself at the same age, so full of hope and excitement for his sport, constantly pushing to get better and become both an adult and a professional. And not just in the skating department either. Yuuri wouldn't have called himself a pro at romance, but he wasn't blind to the blushing and glancing that was going on between triple Salchow attempts. It made him want to sink under the ice like the Titanic, only to be found by archaeologists centuries later, his cringe still visible even then.

“Thank you so much Yuuri! This really means the world to me,” Minami said, beaming once they'd finished for the day. Even after hours of work he still looked excitable. Maybe it was the red dyed streak in his hair that added an exclamation mark to every sentence.

“No problem,” Yuuri replied, noticing how his 'wan-hipster-liar' persona was getting ever-stronger. He hoped this wouldn't become his permanent way of speaking, just smiling and nodding to hide the madness within. “I'll see you tomorrow. Don't be late.” Willing himself not to be too irresponsibly friendly, he got ready to say a quick goodbye...and then cursed his weakness as he gave in to fluffing Minami's hair (so cute!), which made the kid purr even louder than before.

 

“So he's got a crush on you now, on top of being your student?”

“Mari, how did you-”

“Yuuko told Phichit.” Yuuri narrowed his eyes at his room-mate, who pretended to be wholly absorbed in picking which shirt to wear. They were about half an hour late for a party a friend of a friend was throwing, even though Yuuri had been ready an hour ago. Phichit's belief was that parties were “all in the timing, young grasshopper Yuuri, all in the timing”, so this happened a lot.

“Yuuri, I don't know what you think you're doing with this kid but if it gets out of hand I had nothing to do with it,” Mari said, monotone.

“Hey wait, that's unfair, I wouldn't do that-” She'd beaten him to hanging up again. 

Yuuri stared at his phone in horror. She didn't actually think he'd make a move on Minami, did she? Really? Mari of all people knew that Yuuri was a disaster when it came to flirting and any sort of relationship that involved other humans, so the idea that he'd be able to somehow take advantage of the kid would have been laughable, if it wasn't so damn creepy. Sure, Minami admired him, maybe he had a silly crush going on, but as with most things in his life, Yuuri was sure that if he ignored it long enough it would get bored and go away.

“Ooh, skating news!” Phichit chirped, buttoning his shirt skilfully with one hand (he'd chosen the green one he always did in the end), his phone in the other. “Victor Nikiforov's in Hasetsu!”

“What.” Yuuri's mouth fell open of its own accord.

“Yeah, apparently he's at the party.”

“How do you know this exactly?” Yuuri found his hands shaking. _Victor Nikiforov... Only my freaking idol, only the greatest male figure skater of all time..._

“I haunt his Instagram like the ghosts that haunt your past.” Phichit shrugged on his jacket, brushing some hamster fur off the left sleeve.

“...Wait, so Victor flipping Nikiforov is...here... But...why?” Yuuri's knee started jiggling. Suddenly his clothes looked like they'd come out of a garbage truck and his personality out of a bad TV show. _Victor...Victor Nikiforov?_

“Yuuri, babe, if there's one thing I've learnt about social media, it's that you will never learn 'why' from it,” said Phichit nonchalantly, dragging him out of the flat by his feet. Clawing the ground, Yuuri tried fruitlessly to remember when his life was just a Mess, and not a Total Fucking Disaster.


	2. Victor Nikiforov: The Bomb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully this chapter is slightly more interesting than chapter 1 was haha ^-^''' enjoy!

It was loud and dark already when they got to the party, which made vague sense, since it was night-time and it was a party. However, what Yuuri didn't expect was the sheer amount of people that weren't there. It looked like...a normal event, not a celebrity meet-and-greet.

“You said V...Victor was here, right?” he asked Phichit, barely making enough sound to form his idol's name.

“ _Is_ here, my friend, _is_. ...Hey,” Phichit mouthed to a boy sitting on the stairs, who winked at him. Yuuri felt his stomach turn.

__“__ Then why aren't there any crowds...?” He spun around. Phichit was gone, already extremely invested in a conversation on the other side of the room with several eligible young bachelors. _How do you do this socialising magic?_ Yuuri prayed to the God of Partay that he would somehow find Victor and be able to talk to him, or at least look at him without dying, but the line to that particular deity seemed to be going straight to voicemail; the anxiety in his stomach refused to budge.

He walked through the party, trying to work out if any of these people would be interested in anything he had to say. The answer appeared to be no, since they all seemed to be wearing scarves...or cardigans...or band t-shirts. _How am I acquainted with the host again? When did I become cool enough to associate with scarf-cardigan-band people?_ Add to that the terrifying revelation that he might see his idol accidentally, or worse on purpose, at this, the very lowest of his low points, and Yuuri felt like he might just explode everywhere.

Eventually, the wall seemed like a good place to stand with his cup. It expected nothing from Yuuri, and it was comforting that himself and the wall had something in common there. Of course, he was still very much uncomfortable and quite frankly sad about the way his life was looking and the stupidity of himself in letting it get that way, but at least he wouldn't have to explain it to anyone unless-

Suddenly, Yuuri got a sinking urge to turn his head 90 degrees to the left. Of course. Victor Ni-fucking-kiforov was leaning against the same wall as him, wearing a pastel blue shirt and sunglasses, looking like a fucking anime character. Yuuri wondered if he should attempt to continue breathing, or just succumb to death and have done with it. This was the man of whom he had a collection of posters and videos of in his old bedroom; this was the man who had inspired him to start skating competitively from the age of eleven; this was the reason Yuuri had realised that he was (very) gay; at his Grand Prix Disaster, he had watched Victor skate _Stammi Vicino_ from the sidelines, looking like he was waiting for some sort of angel to whisk him away to his rightful spot in Beautiful Inspiring People Heaven... and he somehow was breathing like anyone else and wearing pastel shirts?? It just didn't compute.

Which was probably why Yuuri, out of nowhere, managed to work up the courage to speak to him. Just because that was the one thing that would make the situation make even less sense.

"...Hi.”

“Hey.”

“Do you know whose party this is?”

“No, not really. Do you?”

“Haha... um, actually I-

“Wait...you're Yuuri Katsuki, no?”

“...Am I dreaming?”

“Did you want to take a picture? …?”

“…I'll leave you alone forever now.”

“Wait, what?”

After about an hour of self-pity in hiding, Yuuri ended up standing by the drinks table, drowning his sorrows in...whatever it was he was drinking now. He wasn't sure exactly how much of the beer or dodgy spirits he'd already consumed, probably enough that his breath would set alight, but he did...he did feel a lot better. Plus, the row of empty cups on the table was kind of hilarious. And...wait a minute...he loved this song!

 

Yuuri woke up the next morning with pills, water and a bin beside his head, and as soon as he opened his eyes he realised why.

“Rise and shine,” said Phichit, looking up from his laptop with a wicked grin.

“Who, me?” said an unknown voice.

“Argh, there's people next to me in the bed, why are they next to me in the bed-”

"Relax, Yuuri, I brought them home. This is Leo and Guang-Hong. They have a very loving and fulfilling relationship,” said Phichit primly.

“Aw, thank you,” said another smiling voice beside Yuuri's head, “That's so sweet of you.” Yuuri wondered if death by embarrassment was possible, then decided it wasn't, otherwise life would have crushed him many, many moons ago.

“...Did anything else happen last night- shit! Kenjirou!” Yuuri tried to sit up, then clutched his head as gravity decided to spin the room around him like a top.

“It's ok, lie down. I told him you were sick.” Groaning out a 'thank you', Yuuri took a glug of water. _It's only day 2 and already this has gone...so wrong._

He spent most of that day feeling dreadful, and wondering what had gone on last night at that party while his sanity was away. However, it was bad enough being this hungover and owing his vague semblance of health to Phichit, so he decided not to ask him about what he may or may not have done whilst under the influence. If he got home safely, it couldn't have been that bad.

“Yuuri, just check your email notifications,” said Phichit, after a third ding made his room-mate's headache worse. “Then you won't be notified any more.”

“Please,” said Guang-Hong, sitting on Leo's lap reading, before adding sheepishly, “All relationships are built on strong foundations of communication, after all.”

“I love it when you talk dirty like that,” murmured Leo into his hair.

“Ok, ok, I'm checking them, just stop with the, the maturity!”

Yuuri squinted at his phone screen, trying to work up the motivation to trawl through more than a few words of the overly long email, which seemed to be written in purple, but he blamed his headache for that.

_Dear Sir,_  
I am writing to inform you of a challenge blah blah blah _you have made a move on V_ blah blah blah _the league is waiting_ blah blah blah blah _prepare for death_ blah blah _many battles will follow_ blah blah blah blah blah  
_Yours,_ blah blah

“Just SPAM, I think,” Yuuri said, wondering whether it had been worth reaching his arm nearly all the way out to get his phone, just for that.

“Disappointing,” said Phichit, in a way that told Yuuri he wasn't disappointed at all. “Are you coming to Minako's dance thing with us?”

“When's that?”

Phichit checked his watch. “Twenty minutes ago this second in three...two...”

 

“Three...two...Let's get this party _started_!!!!” bellowed the announcer into his microphone over the heads of the crowd, which would have been effective had it not been about 4 in the afternoon, and had the audience not been made up of mostly girls under 10 who Minako had taught, as well as Yuuri and everyone he knew, apparently. Why Minako had decided to hold her annual pupils' performance in such a dingy venue, no one really knew.

“Maybe she's just adding...authenticity to her performers, by having them dance...in a bad karaoke bar?” tried Guang-Hong, then shook his head. “Doesn't really work, does it?”

“No, babe,” said Leo, giving him a consolation smile.

Yuuri looked around up from the table he was sat at with Phichit, Mari, The Loving and Fulfilling Relationship, and one of Mari's friends, and suddenly wanted to crawl under it.

“Kenjirou? You're here?”

The now-all-too-familiar blush worked its way across Kenjirou's nose, and Yuuri wanted to slap himself for thinking it was sweet.

“Yeah, I really wanted to see what your old teacher was like!” he squeaked, hovering beside their table with a cup of what looked like orange juice.

“I'm Mari, Yuuri's sister,” said Mari, managing to smile at Kenjirou and frown at Yuuri as she pulled another chair up beside her and introduced him to everyone. Kenjirou's eyes seemed to get continuously wider and wider, with a very real danger that they would grow out on stalks unless someone changed the subject.

“Our first performer is seven-year-old Nagisa, dancing to the song “Death to All But Metal”! Let's give her a warm welcome, folks!” chirped the announcer, applauding a small girl with a black leotard and what looked like it might be a spiked dog collar.

“So, Seung-gil,” began Phichit innocently to the stern-faced guy sat next to him, “What do you think of her performance?” Yuuri recognised the Gay-In-Sheep's-Clothing technique from many, many nights out in college, and he knew by now: it wasn't a matter of 'if', but 'when' the guy would crack, especially when Phichit's eyeliner was on peak form.

“Well her costume's far too bland,” said Seung-gil snobbishly.

“Really?” Phichit's eyes glinted and he suppressed an evil smile. Yuuri sent up a mental prayer for the next unwitting victim of Thailand's Hottest Man Below 24.

“Yes, I much prefer-”

“Victor?”

Luckily for Yuuri, his cry of astonishment was lost in the sudden blast of Viking-Metal-Steampunk-Rock that was accompanied incongruously by a series of rather adorable jétés from the little dancer, so the five time world champion who now happened to be sitting beside him wasn't spotted by anyone else.

“Hi,” smiled Victor, seemingly unfazed by the travesty they were witnessing. “Did I miss anything?”

“No, no, just some shouting,” said Phichit, earning him a bug-eyed stare from Yuuri. “What? Didn't I tell you he was coming?”

Victor pouted. “You could have invited me yourself, Yuuri. You do have my number after all.” His voice was soft and slightly accented, the “r” sounds rolling and going straight to Yuuri's head like a heady perfume.

“I...I do?” Yuuri desperately attempted to search through his memories of the previous night, but his thoughts were otherwise occupied. _We are sorry, but we cannot deal with your request at the moment. All circuits are currently engaged in measuring the distance between your hand and the hand of The Greatest Living Male Figure Skater, which stands at present, at 4 centimetres...3 centimetres...2...1..._

“We didn't get a chance to talk enough last night, Yuuri. Why don't you tell me some more about yourself?” _System failure. System failure. System failure._ Yuuri found himself unable to do anything but stare at the hand wrapped around his wrist, the hand that belonged to the body of the most beautiful man he had ever seen. And now he was desperately trying not to think about the rest of that man's body, _nice one Yuuri._

“Are you on holiday here?” asked Mari with a polite level of interest, given that Victor was staring into her younger brother's eyes with barely-disguised keenness.

“Yes, I wanted to take a bit of a break between seasons,” he answered excitedly, allowing Yuuri to breathe by breaking their eye contact, “And now I think I might stay a little longer than I planned.”

Victor reminded Yuuri of a really beautiful bomb. The sort of bomb that smiled like a cherub, and had a jawline that could cut glass, but would also destroy every wisp of normality that existed in your life if you weren't careful. He had already taken account of the exits of the building, and was just about to make a dash for the nearest one, when suddenly:

______________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_“MR KATSUKI!!”_


	3. Georgi Popovich: Mr Glitter

The ceiling burst open, rendered asunder like a crushed coke can, and everyone inside was briefly blinded by the late-afternoon sunshine that streamed in, except the bar's owner, who was blinded by tears at the prospect of having to pay for a new roof. Kenjirou actually fainted dead away. Yuuri stared up, open-mouthed, Victor's touch forgotten, as amidst all the dust and a few surprised-looking birds, a figure swooped down, screaming his name.

“YUURI KATSUKI! I CHALLENGE YOU TO A DUEL!” cried the stranger, who appeared to be wearing a rather glamorous purple cape and catsuit, as well as a full face-and-a-half of makeup. It would have looked pretty ridiculous, had he not just punched through the top of a building, and was now apparently hovering...in mid-air? _What?_

The crowd had formed a circle around the purple guy, presumably to distance themselves as much as possible from the Weirdness he was exuding. Yuuri would have been quite happy to stay on the outside of this circle, away from the Weird and close to the Victor, only Catsuit Man appeared to have spotted him already, and the squealing girls and their confused parents parted in a line as he flew towards him, fist outstretched like a drag queen Superman.

“YOU!” he roared, face contorted.

“What do I-” began Yuuri, but Phichit was already pushing him forward.

“Fight!”

“But I don't know howww- _yah!_ ” Yuuri's protests turned into a shout as he deflected the stranger's arm, and threw his weight forward into a blow of his own, hurling his opponent back through the air into the middle of the ring. This unexpected success yielded unexpected confidence, so he squared his shoulders and walked into the centre, calling out, “Who are you?”

“My name,” glared the Eyeshadowed Wonder as he righted himself, “is Georgi Popovich! The Alliance has been waiting for you, _Yuuri!_ ”

Yuuri decided to float upwards a little himself, so he was on a level with the guy. “Ok, first of all, it's not very polite to say my name like that, and second, who?”

The guy seemed a little taken aback, and if flying had seemed strange to Yuuri for a minute there, flying whilst disgruntled was even more bizarre. “The Alliance? Didn't you read my email?” His cloak wafted dramatically behind him, the sound just audible in the silence as Yuuri tried to remember.

“I think I...skimmed it?” he shrugged. _Since when were emails so important to my general wellbeing?_

Georgi raised his eyebrows, spreading the purple glitter shadow halfway up his face. (He also rose higher in the air at the same time, which Yuuri thought was a nice touch.) “What?! How dare you lecture me about my manners _when you don't thoroughly go through YOUR INBOX!!_ ” 

The crowd gasped as he drew himself ever higher, before suddenly jolting almost straight down, his leg spinning out like a ballet dancer, and hitting Yuuri's head with a loud _PAFF!_ , throwing him to the floor. Several people called out at that, Phichit's voice louder than the rest of them - “Come on, Yuuri! Kick his fuschia-coloured ass!”

Wincing, Yuuri got back on his feet. “Could you summarise it?” he shouted up to Georgi, who was now reclining in the air for whatever reason.

“What?” 

“The email? Could you summarise it?” He pushed his toes against the ground, jumping up into nothing. _Apparently physics doesn't apply right now. Cool._

A few people groaned as Georgi got into a very rehearsed-looking pose, his hand on his heart and another in his hair. “I,” he intoned theatrically, “am the first of the Alliance of the Seven Deadly Rivals!” Someone began to applaud, then stopped when they realised no one else was.

“We are the string of broken hearts and souls left behind by the man you love -” Georgi pressed on in spite of Yuuri's attempt at interrupting - “Victor Nikiforov!” 

“What?” demanded Yuuri, as all eyes darted to Victor, who met the younger man's eyes, wincing.

“Victor has defeated all of us in the Alliance, both on the ice and in love!” declared Georgi, flitting into a series of different poses, mostly of the clutched-heart, swooned-brow variety, even managing to let a single tear fall on the word 'love'. (It landed in the hair of one of Minako's pupils, who squealed and mussed up her hitherto perfect chignon.)

“...Wait, so... so you dated this guy?” Yuuri turned to Victor, incredulous enough to get straight to the personal questions. _Not that I'm jealous of Mr Glitter here, but...really?_ It was ridiculous to even consider Victor going out with someone so...so very... _extravagant? Borderline insane? ...Magenta?_

The silver-haired skater sighed, and stepped to the edge of the circle, looking directly at Yuuri with those piercing blue eyes the whole time, which made his stomach do little flips in spite of the whole “duel” situation. 

“Yeah, I dated him. When I was thirteen.”

 

_Georgi and I have been around each other ever since Yakov, my coach, took me in aged seven. We'd train together, we learnt our first jumps side by side on the ice. After a while, we began our first routine. I wanted mine to be about love, but I had never experienced it, and so one day, once our session had ended, I asked Georgi to kiss me. And that was it. From then on, we both knew: I was terribly gay, and he was so heterosexual that he immediately asked out his neighbour, Anya, as soon as he got home. They've been together ever since._

 

“So...you're actually with someone else right now?” Yuuri asked Georgi, confused. “And your first kiss counts if it's with a straight guy?” he turned back to Victor, who shrugged wearily.

“For your information, Anya has departed my side forevermore, although God only knows why she should flee from the one man who truly under _stands_ her!” The Purple-clad Tragedy turned several angry pirouettes in the air, arms gracefully akimbo. _Exactly how does he manage that ratio of grace and anger though?_ thought Yuuri, before realising that the ratio, no matter what it was, was careening toward him once more. There was no way he could rely on a lucky punch this time; his face was most certainly going to get smushed.

“Hey!” shouted Phichit from the sidelines, “Your free leg's slack, motherfucker!” 

Georgi stopped mid-spin, looking like an angry fairy godmother. “No it is _not!_ ”

“Bullshit!” chimed in Leo, catching on to his friend's strategy. “It's flailing around like your limp dick, man!”

As the slaughter of Georgi's technique continued, Yuuri caught sight of Guang-Hong motioning something to him: _ti...tipple?...triple..._

Of course! He gave him a discreet thumbs-up, thanking the universe that Phichit had brought his new Favourite Relationship along with him. As usual, the universe shrugged. It was none of its business what (or who) Phichit did in his spare time.

While Georgi was still distracted - “My leg looks nothing like a jellyworm, you uncooth beasts!” -, Yuuri took the opportunity to zoom to the opposite end of their little arena. He mentally skimmed through his repertoire, thinking on his feet (or was it _off_ his feet, being in zero-G?), and drew himself into a starting position. He was shuddering, almost visibly.

But mere moments before he began, his dark brown eyes latched onto a pair of icy blue ones. Victor's strange, tired expression seemed to lift, just for a second, reminding Yuuri exactly how much he didn't know about this man; _who are you beneath all of this, and how far down does it go?_ And yet in that single breath, as something seemed to stir below Victor's frosted-glass surface, something that looked like it needed saving...wanted to be saved...Yuuri recognised something familiar. 

He stopped shaking.

“Hey you! Twinkletoes! How about we settle this like real men?”

Before Georgi had time to turn back to face him, Yuuri was speeding toward the other end of the arena, his feet only silent because there was no ground to hit. He could feel himself building momentum, but was it enough? The underworked Motivation Team in Yuuri's brain, who were usually on a permanent tea break, or being yelled at by the Anxiety Department, switched into action, and flashed up a mental image of blue eyes...fair, fair hair...a single touch...

Was it enough? _It has to be._

Yuuri launched himself high into the air, arms crossed against his chest. Time seemed to slow down as he spun round, again, again, and one more time, now throwing out his leg gracefully as he came down...

...smack into Georgi's left temple. _Triple loop._

His opponent staggered back through the air, flailing for a moment, before regaining his balance, and giving Yuuri the deathliest of glares. “So you _do_ want a fight, then, Mr Katsuki? Well, a fight it is. _TO THE DEATH!_ ” 

Then the duel truly began, in a language that Yuuri and Georgi could both understand. One would try a triple Lutz aimed for the torso, but his foot would collide with only air as the other performed a seamless Ina Bauer-style dodge. That would be followed by a swift triple-double, useful for two quick attempts to the face or legs, but useless if the target swept away in a graceful spiral, taking the extra time for better preparation of their next offence. Without any ground to be glued to, spins became lethal, the skaters able to move up or down through the air like power drills. The audience 'ooh'ed and 'aah'ed every time Georgi or Yuuri seemed to be at an advantage, and many of the dancers' eyes sparkled in a sort of horrified delight as they watched the graceful duel...or was it a _duet?_ Either way, never before had beating someone up become so beautiful. 

Of course, Phichit found a megaphone and took his opportunity to add some running commentary.

“Katsuki's going in for the triple Salchow, he's moving in towards Popovich - who dodges it with a classic lunge! He's really in for the kill this time, not letting Katsuki slack off here, and there! -he goes for the second quad loop he's tried today, will it throw his opponent off balance? And no it won't, apparently, Katsuki's moves are just as smokin' hot today, as this wonderful young Korean man sat beside me, ladies and gentlemen-”

Yuuri could feel that he wouldn't be able to hold up against Georgi much longer. He was being slowly worn down, blow by blow, and it was becoming harder and harder to hide. But there was no way in hell that he was going to lose. Not to some weirdo in violet spandex. _Time to end this._

“Hey...clown-face,” he panted between blows, mentally forgiving himself the lame insult, “Why...are you fighting...for someone...you don't even want?”

“What?” spat Georgi, trying to catch Yuuri out with a spin, but failing as his opponent only decided to get closer and closer, rather than further away.

“Well,” Yuuri continued to float slowly forward, blocking every kick with his arm at near-lightning speed, “It isn't Victor...you love...is it? It's...What's...her name again? ...The girl you loved? ...Who left you...for some other guy?”

Everything began to slow down. He watched as Georgi's face gradually contorted, and his arms reached skyward, purple glitter leaking down his face as he called out,

“Her name was...Her name was -”

Yuuri knelt down behind Georgi, and began to spin as fast as he could, slowly rising up out of a seated position even though his legs screamed at him to cut them some slack, and...wait for it...wait for it...

_“ANYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”_

...kicked outwards and upwards, straight into the base of Georgi's skull.

“ _KO!_ ” screamed Phichit into the megaphone. 

With a final flap of his purple witch-cloak, Georgi disappeared into thin air, leaving only a steaming bowl that fell to the ground with a small 'clink'.

Gravity reclaimed Yuuri too, though sympathetically – even if he had broken the laws of physics, some of his moves had been rather spectacular, so nature was happy to let him get away with it for now. 

 

“Mmmm, katsudon. Want some?” Yuuri held out the bowl to Victor as they sat on the swings, in the park overlooking the beach. After the battle had ended, everyone had gone home, Phichit and Co. getting ready to have a rather adult kind of Pyjama Party. Mari had just sighed as Seung-gil walked off with the now-entourage – there was no stopping the Terror of the Internet when there was something he wanted – so she had decided to help get Kenjirou (still unconscious) back to his family somehow, probably just with arm strength.

Which had left these two to enjoy each other's company for a little while.

“Sure, why not?” Yuuri suppressed a laugh as Victor's absent acceptance of the food turned into astonished gusto with the first mouthful. “Vkusno! What is this, nectar of the gods?”

“My mum makes it,” was the sheepish reply. 

They stared out at the ocean. The sun was going down, painting the Hasetsu waves with an orange-golden brush, the sky blushing at how beautiful the sight was to witness. Yuuri could very much relate to the sky at this point in time. The way the light fell across Victor's face and through his lashes was...fantastical. And there was nothing Yuuri could do about it, but sit and be gradually pulverised by beautiful things.

So it fell to Victor to casually break the silence.

“You don't remember what happened last night, do you?”

Yuuri started a little, unable to say much other than a feeble, “n-no?” 

“You drank too much. So did I, if I'm honest. We danced. It's ok, it was fun,” he added, noticing Yuuri's pale expression. _There should be a law against eyes like that, and aiming them at innocent civilians._ “You asked me to be your coach.” Victor winked.

His voice was so velvet-smooth that Yuuri had to go over the words a few times before he actually understood them. He had... _what?_

“Victor, I...I'm so, so sorry,” he began, but his idol held up his hand, dismissing the apology before it had a chance to sully the air with its awkwardness.

“I would have told you last night, only you fell asleep,” Victor continued cheerily, apparently totally failing to recognise the effect that his words were having on his audience, “but I had actually already decided to ask you the very same thing.”

Yuuri's jaw hit the ground as this man, known in the skating world as the Five-Time Victor, stood up in front of him, looking like the Eighth Wonder of the World, basking in golden light, and held out his hand.

“Yuuri, if you have me, I'll coach you. I'll get you to the Grand Prix Final, and we'll win you your first gold. You mesmerise with the way you skate, I've seen it: online, at our last competition, here today-”

“Um.” Yuuri wanted to die a bit for bringing some conflict into the situation; _the fucking reason for your career is standing right here, offering you freedom from this ridiculous life you've invented, and of course, of course you would try to push him away, God._ But he said it anyway. “About today, actually...”

Victor's perfectly crafted smile faltered, and Yuuri caught a glimpse of it again, that something below the surface that he recognised. “What do you want to know?”

“Your...Seven Deadly Exes-”

“Rivals.”

“Yeah, that.” Yuuri looked down at the sandy ground. “If I want...you...to coach me, I have to defeat them all, don't I?”

Victor seemed a little surprised by that, caught off guard for whatever reason. “Well...yes. If that's what you want.”

That in turn startled Yuuri, enough that he looked directly into Victor's (dangerous, so dangerous) eyes and said firmly, “Yes. It is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus the stage is set. 
> 
> Wow, thanks to everyone who's shown appreciation for this so far, it's been amazing! (as usual, my chapters get slowly longer as the writing brain cells start to work again) I hope you liked Battle No. #1! (i've never written a fight scene before, so i hope it was up to scratch ^-^''')


	4. Mila Babicheva: Guru of All Things Ripped

“No it's not!”

Yuuri looked despairingly at the younger boy in front of him, wishing that he could somehow make this conversation more comfortable. Anyone else would have been able to tell Yuuri that actually, he wouldn't have had it any other way – if it had proved too easy to tell Kenjirou that he was giving up coaching him and getting back into competition, Yuuri's brain would have drawn up a strict timetable of mental torture to make up for all the anguish he'd missed. _We wouldn't want that now, would we?_

“It's not the same at all. Just because you trained under Celestino doesn't mean he's you,” Kenjirou said quietly. Yuuri's heart fractured as he saw how close the boy was to tears. “You're...you're my hero...”

_My hero._ The words arranged themselves like a banner above Yuuri's head, glinting silver calligraphy heavy with the burden of inspiration. Yuuri glanced up at the banner, wondering what he had ever done to deserve such a beautiful thing, and sadly recognising once again that good old habit he had of ruining everything that was given to him.

“Kenjirou,” he began, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder, “You're at such a high standard of competition already, almost international level-”

But Kenjirou merely shrugged off the weak attempt at comfort. “You got to international level too.” He looked up at Yuuri, his large brown eyes turning into black caverns. The boy was hollowing out where he stood, old dreams dissolving into nothing. “Why isn't that enough?”

“I- I mean-”

Confrontation had never been Yuuri's forte, part of the reason why this job didn't suit him well at all. He was six years older than his (now ex-)student, and yet he felt twice as young, a small child who had knocked over something precious. He was still struggling to find a good answer once Kenjirou had left the rink. Or at least, a better answer than the only one that was true.

_It isn't enough for me._

 

Upon returning to the Chulanont-Katsuki Dump, Yuuri flopped straight onto the mattress, luckily avoiding the sudden death of any of Phichit's pets (human or hamster). He wondered if there was some sort of form he could send off to bring the date of his demise forward to yesterday. Then he remembered that Victor had happened yesterday – _his eyes, his hand, his voice, his sunset_ – and changed his mind. 

“So...how did it go?” panted Phichit's voice from somewhere in the endless expanse of Over There. Over There, however, counted as a part of The World, which Yuuri wasn't ready to face yet, so he merely groaned into a pillow.

“That...bad? Well...at least you know...you did...the right thing...Phew!”

Yuuri raised his head from the Pillow of Despair, wondering if what he was about to see would be PG, but it was just Phichit, punching the air in front of him in time to an exercise DVD, where an angry woman with a red bob shouted “Come on, three more reps! Good!” 

Yuuri's phone rang. (He really had to change that generic ringtone – it made him sound like someone's mum.)

“So you're just not coaching him anymore?” 

“Mari?” As usual, his sister hadn't bothered with pleasantries. She'd said once that it was either give up cigarettes or give up saying 'hello' to people, and cigarettes made you look cool.

“And Victor Nikiforov is your fallback option?” From the deadpan way she said his name, Yuuri could tell that Mari didn't feel the same weird pancake-flips in her chest about Victor as he did.

“Well yeah, I said I'd-”

“Trust you to give up on your give-up career for the world champion.”

Yuuri tried to answer, then frowned. “...That's a bad thing? And how did you find out anyway, I just got- Oh,” as he noticed that Phichit was holding his phone in one punching fist.

“Ugh, I'm on your side Yuuri. Just don't waste the opportunity.”

“I-” the dialtone interrupted him “- won't. Since when do you let people on TV tell you what to do?” he asked the Phone Magician instead, who was now standing by the sink with a glass of water. 

Phichit grinned. “Technically I buy her films so it's all consensual. But-” he continued as Yuuri groaned, “it has been a while.”

Yuuri picked up the open DVD case, peeling off a hamster who had claimed it for its own. “You should check her out, she's a fucking icon.” _Mila Babicheva: Do You Even Lift?_ screamed the title in huge red letters. The woman on the cover was the same as the one from the film: tall and tanned, with a subtly-dyed red bob and a fierce expression. Fitness gurus were, as a rule, terrifying, but this one seemed to intimidate more than most. _Maybe it's the massive set of golden dumb-bells she's holding over her head. That or the eight-pack._

“She's filming here in Hasetsu, actually,” added Phichit, “We should go and watch.”

“Is that allowed?” _Why are there so many Russians in Hasetsu right now?_

“No idea.”

 

_Trespassers will be literally thrown out_ , read the sign outside the cordoned-off zone, but Phichit strode right past anyway, handing Yuuri a takeaway mochachino: “If you carry a cup of coffee, everyone thinks you work for them. It's science.”

The crew had set up on the Hasetsu beaches, and people with clipboards were actually measuring how far back the tide was from the spot they planned to film. Yuuri wondered aloud why they couldn't just use a green-screen for the backdrop of sparkling mirrors, and the set of oversized red dumb-bells suspended overhead.

“Oh no way, Mila's _totally_ authentic,” said Phichit wisely. “She would never just 'make do', that's not what she's about.” He sipped his coffee, watching the crew set up the lighting and discuss whether they should get some different coloured sand in to put over the actual sand, and Yuuri was about to say, _How can I be sure you don't actually work for her?_ , when a hand brushed past his. 

“We just keep watching the sunsets together, don't we Yuuri? Well, call me old-fashioned, but I've always enjoyed long walks on the beach.”

“Victor!” Yuuri stared open-mouthed at the silver-haired vision before him, who happened to look even more svelte when wearing a duck-egg blue overcoat. _How does he just keep appearing everywhere? Does he have some kind of tracking device on me?_

“You still haven't called me, you know,” smiled the Paragon of Russian Skating cheekily. “Phichit had to invite me again.” The guilty party fixed his eyes straight ahead and pretended not to notice the look of bewilderment coming at him from the left. “What are we drinking?”

“M-mochachino,” spluttered Yuuri, as Victor actually lifted the drink out of his hand and took a slow sip, all the while looking him dead in the eyes. _Looking me dead is right._ He could only listen in astonishment as this wonder, this drink-stealing wonder, told him how he had a poodle called Makkachin, whom Yuuri had totally failed to notice was actually sitting obediently beside him, being rather caught up in Victor's use of Japanese pronunciation. _Thank god. If conversation gets difficult I can escape to the poodle for cuddles. You'll help me, won't you?_ Yuuri directed a meaningful glance at Makkachin, who bowed his floofy head knowingly.

“Who is it we're stalking-” Victor began again, just as Phichit squealed, “Oh my God there she _is!_ ” 

And there, indeed, she was. Striding out of a trailer in the most expensive-looking pink trainers Yuuri had ever seen, came Mila Babicheva, her cherry bob clipped back from her face, which looked even sharper than it had on Phichit's workout DVD. Every inch of her was toned; her body was like a diagram of human muscles, including some Yuuri had never seen on an actual person. She murmured something to a young woman with a clipboard, who rushed away, before greeting some of the back-up girls who were ambling into a formation on set. All of them were dressed in equally preppy sportswear in outlandish colours, although Yuuri noted with interest that they weren't your typical 'fitness guru' types.

“She's my fucking _queen_ ,” Phichit was gushing beside him, “Like, she actively chooses women for her videos whose body types and races aren't normally shown on TV, she's such a fucking icon. Hold my coffee Yuuri, I'm literally going to-”

“Oh man, we've got to go.”

Yuuri felt Victor's shoulders stiffen beside him. Makkachin whined, as if for effect. _Trust the dog to be as melodramatic as its owner._ He turned to his new coach, a worried look prepared especially for the occasion, and decided to ask the million-dollar question:

“Why?”

“I used to date that diva.”

When describing the event to others later on, Phichit always swore he had heard Yuuri's jaw drop at that point.

“You dated a model?” The director was ushering the girls into formation on the set, with Mila, _Vogue_ 's three-time “Businesswoman of the Year”, at the front. Victor winced as dance music began to blast out of a speaker somewhere nearby, but Yuuri's mouth was still hanging open. “A female model?”

“It's a long story, it was just a few months-” Victor replied hurriedly. His eyes seemed firmly glued to the darkening scene in front of them, and Yuuri absently noted how the colours subtly brushed over his face as the sun continued its descent, even though most of his mind was very much preoccupied with Being Surprised. _I'm getting that a lot at the moment, aren't I?_

Suddenly a new voice rang out, in a carefully marketed feminine-yet-empowered tone, “Come on then, let's see what you've got!” Mila was twisting her already sculpted core from right to left, holding weights in either hand, smiling and bouncing on the balls of her feet for the camera. It was disgustingly inspiring, and Yuuri could hear Phichit screaming through closed lips beside him.

“When did you even meet her, at Famous People Club?”

Victor finally looked back at Yuuri, who thought for a second he was seeing double. _This guy doesn't need a dog, he's got the puppy-eyes down already._ “It was before all of that. We went to the same school, we had a dance class together.”

The Red-headed Study in Human Anatomy was now happily shouting encouragement, lifting her knees up to the weights in the opposite hand. Her squadron of workout buddies followed suit, each with the same winning smile.

“She was trying to lose her puppy fat,” Victor said, whining a little. _He really is a dog._

“She had puppy fat? But she's famous.”

“Come on then, let's see what you've got, _Yuuri Katsuki!_ ” 

A golden dumb-bell crunched into Yuuri's head, the impact sending him sprawling. He could just make out a pair of tanned calves in front of him, and an overly-energetic voice remarking, “You can do better than that, can't you?”, but the world was spinning like an exercise bicycle wheel. 

Mila pulled him up by his T-shirt and raised a single sleek eyebrow, her expression twisted into Regina George-esque disdain. “Aren't you supposed to be a pro? You're way out of shape.” 

“I...was on...a break,” panted the supposed pro from the ground. _Am I supposed to not fight women? Is that sexist? Is it okay to fight her if she forces me to think sexist thoughts?_

The Goddess of Six-week Six Packs did not look impressed. Yuuri kind of guessed this from the way she lifted him by his shirt-front and threw him (literally, the sign hadn't been a hoax) into the glaring lights and mirrors of the workout video set. 

“You don't get to break from being _the best!_ ”

From somewhere far away he was sure that he heard Phichit call out something about Deadly Rivals and fighting, but the universe was twirling around Yuuri all over again, as though he'd been forced into some kind of existential ballet class. Which, in a way, he had.

The owner of those outrageously pink trainers strode over to him, and he just managed to get to his feet, mentally patting himself on the back for not being a complete lump. Yuuri reached back his arm, gaining enough momentum for a substantial _whack_ , when something in his peripheral vision made him duck out of instinct.

“Looks like you've got to learn a bit more about teamwork, piggy,” Mila said, smirking. She had been standing to Yuuri's left the whole time, arms folded. Upon re-examining the opposition, it turned out that she wasn't the Guru of All Things Ripped, but one of the girls from her brigade of hotties, who actually looked nothing like Mila. 

It only took a few seconds for the whole group to form a terrifying Circle of Airbrushed Fitness around Yuuri, and start pounding him with their coral-clad feet, their 'kicks' looking suspiciously like “Spotty Dog” move from Phichit's DVD. Somewhere between the fifth and eighth hit, Yuuri began to wonder what exactly he was doing, being tossed around on a beach with everyone watching. _I'm better than this, aren't I? I mean...I'm not great...but I'm better than whatever this is._

_And there's no way I'm going to lose. Not now that-_

 

“Miss Babicheva! We have some issues to workout!”

_Well, cancelling gravity seemed to work last time._

The Crimson-Haired Fitness Oligarch glanced up from the enormous golden dumb-bell she was lifting single-handed, leaping with a catlike grace into the air as she saw how Yuuri was sailing towards her in a very well balanced arabesque. The surrounding crew stared, completely unfazed by the two of them apparently skating through the air, nor by the ensuing sight of their superstar taking Yuuri into her arms in mid-air and performing an incredible twist lift, that catapulted her partner straight through the back mirror of the set, and almost into the ocean beyond. They'd seen it all before.

“Prepare to feel the wrath of the Seven Deadly Rivals, pig,” spat Mila, kicking aside the last of the broken glass like she ate it for breakfast. _She probably sells a whole broken glass diet range._

“So there's...actually seven of you?” Yuuri was barely surprised at this point. Mostly just tired. Two epic battles in two days wasn't fun, and the thought that it was going to happen every day for the rest of the week...that sounded exhausting.

“Yeah, of course there are seven. We wouldn't be the Seven Deadly Rivals otherwise. Duh.” The Disgusted High-School Cliché Face was back. “And _that_ shambles was your big move? I was Victor's dance partner for years, prick, in both the male and female roles.” 

“So you're a pretty good skater,” murmured Yuuri, thinking fast. “But do you even lift?”

Mila cackled, shaking her split-end-free hair in smug disbelief. “Are you serious? You're stealing my movie titles now?”

“How much d'you lift?”

That caught her attention. “What?”

“Could you maybe...” Yuuri looked up at her innocently, “lift _those?_ ” He nodded his head toward the enormous set of red dumb-bells fixed above the mirror.

“They're three times my weight, dumbass.”

“But could you do it?”

The stunning exercise tycoon's eyes flashed, accepting the challenge. She strutted a few steps back from Yuuri and the shards of sunset-speckled glass, and began to limber up her impeccably-bronzed arms. 

At some point Phichit and Victor had come to stand beside Yuuri, and it was Victor who now helped him to his feet. _Don't you dare overthink him holding your hand, you just got your ass kicked for him._

“How come you dated-” Yuuri began, but Victor cut in, sounding world-weary all over again.

“She was my beard during high school. And I was hers, actually,” he added, glancing up at the woman who was managing to remain camera-ready even whilst taking the incredible weight of...that incredible weight.

 

_I was training for my first junior competitions, half-in half-out of school most of the time. The only people I saw were my dance and skating friends, and the people who sought me out to tear me down. I had long hair, I did ballet...I was a target. Right when I was on the verge of asking Mila out, even though I knew it would have been selfish to pretend I liked someone, she was the one who asked me. Turned out she'd been teased for being overweight and having short hair, and she needed a shield from the same world I did. We stayed that way until I came out publicly, after much discussion, just before my first real Nationals competition._

 

Yuuri could barely register the story, however, with the grunting and groaning Mila in front of them, who had very nearly hefted the weight above her head, arms barely shuddering...

...until Phichit's terribly-timed, “Can I have your autograph?” made her snap out of concentration, and she collapsed, the scarlet weights landing on her with a soft _pop!_ as both woman and weights transformed into a blue bowl of katsudon.

 

“Well, that was an anticlimax,” murmured Victor, before looking around to find that Yuuri, and all his mystery, had completely disappeared. _Why? The fight's already happened, what is there to run from?_

“Yes, he does that,” said Phichit, when asked about it. He was peering curiously at the katsudon, apparently wondering whether it would be more respectful to eat this rather odd memento of his heroine or to keep it preserved for all time. (Rather comically, Victor noticed, a hamster was also peering at the katsudon, teetering on the edge of Phichit's hairline as it tried to sniff the air.) “He's usually at the rink though, you should try there.”

If asked, Victor would have had to confess to being a little touched by this. He could remember being a much younger skater, fleeing back to the ice in sudden bursts of emotion. Sometimes, back then, he had spent days holding his breath; to skate was to exhale. 

These days, he couldn't find the same release.

He looked out across the sea as the night sky turned the waves to onyx, gently blending colours until the horizon was nowhere to be found.

_If Yuuri feels that way about skating too...I won't be long in-_

Victor put a hand in his pocket, cutting off that train of thought. It was neither helpful nor constructive to think that way.

“Come on Makka. Bring back Yuuri.”

The poodle didn't move. Victor sighed.

“...Right. That's my job. I can't believe you just made me say that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't abandoned this idea, i promise! progress is slow, for the usual reasons (school, brain-power, uni stuff etc).
> 
> i hope you liked this chapter (i love mila, i really wanted her to kick ass) and the story so far. 
> 
> i keep meaning to write a victuuri scene but it never happens somehow. guess i'm just as shy about those things as yuuri is. they'll get there, i promise. T-T


	5. JJ Leroy: Red-Eyed Moose Lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow it has been a while, but here we are
> 
> i haven't abandoned this fic and i don't intend to; this chapter just took SO LONG. 
> 
> kay. lets go.

_I can't believe he actually said that._

Yuuri was skating, of course. Aside from the impromptu mid-air duels – those hurt his head if he thought about them too much, as if nature was grumpily denying that it had changed the rules; aside from _those_ , Yuuri hadn't practised at all in over a month.

It was like he hadn't spoken in all that time, his voice mute unless he could talk in arcs, in sharp bends and take-offs. Yuuri seldom felt listened to, but on the ice... every gesture held meaning, the routines became more and more polished until he was finally free of them, able to focus on the moments as they themselves danced with him like partners in a ballroom. When he skated...it was more than being heard. He felt understood.

He had started with a few loose circles around the rink, trying to gage what level he was at by attempting a couple of jumps and some vague spins, although he already knew that a month's figurative silence hadn't done him any favours. After a while, Yuuri had realised that he didn't actually have any material to work with: he didn't have a new routine, and he certainly wasn't going to revisit his old ones. _I'd just end up cringing instead of skating._

So he had started on one of Victor's instead.

_Stammi Vicino_ had been the routine of the night at Yuuri's first-and-last Grand Prix Final. As soon as Victor had glided out into the middle of the ice, the audience went completely silent, even before the lights had gone down. He had held them all in a trance, powerless to do anything but watch.

Yuuri hadn't wanted to face going out to the competitors' seats after his Utter Trainwreck of a routine, so he had had to settle for the live TV-feed behind the scenes.

He still reflected on those few, shimmering minutes whenever he forgot why he was alive.

Such beauty, such longing, and almost effortless, like an outburst of impassioned speech. A novel held suspended in a lone moving figure; poetry.

_But it's unfinished, isn't it? That's the best part – we only see the beginning. Where does the story go from there?_

That feeling of being lost, of constant longing for something unseen...Yuuri could relate to that rather a lot at the moment. So he had decided to try it out for himself, from memory and without music, which had started him off on a long train of thought about the skater whose routine it was in the first place.

Including the strange comments he kept making whenever he turned up, which was frequently. _What was with that line about “long walks on the beach”? And why does he keep on saying he gave me his number when I never asked him for it?_

Yuuri, of course, wasn't blind to when he was being flirted with – even he, a Sheltered Potato, had managed to catch Victor's overly-conspicuous drift – but the thoughts just wouldn't gel. In preparation for the next jump, he would get as far as  _Victor Nikiforov flirts with me in public_ , then the thought would dissipate in his third (or sometimes fourth) spin. _It's hard enough trying to skate like I'm full of longing; I don't need the added pressure of actually_ wishing _myself into the character’s emotional state._

(Both Yuuri and his emotional state were aware that denial would help no one and that he was already A Hopeless Case when it came to the Second Hottest Eligible Bachelor of the Year. This was evidenced by the fact that, upon finding out that Victor had been named “Second Hottest”, Yuuri had actually yelled “No!” at his phone. Twice.)

It took him about half an hour to solidify what the actual moves were before he started really working, settling into a rhythm of attempts, failures and revisions, and all the while desperate to remain only semi-conscious of what he was doing. Too much self-awareness and he would lose focus and lose to the feelings of imperfection just outside his line of sight.

_Another jump - not quite; another spin - almost; reach with your arm now...good. Again._  

The easiest part was interpreting the routine for himself, but all too soon Yuuri was bored of his version of events. _Why did_ Victor _choreograph this?_  It was true that he was highly skilled - _he could probably compose from a subject as banal as dirty laundry_  - and yet the depth of calculation that had gone into every movement must have been personal. _What is Victor looking for?_ _What more can he want?_

 

“Yuuri!”

_And...you're back in the room._

He spun around in shock to where Victor (of course) was standing at the far end of the rink, and made a quick mental note to dive under the nearest oncoming bus. _He just saw_ me _...doing_ his _routine..._

Yuuri attempted to make an escape via the closest rink gate, but his path was blocked by an excitable mass of fluff.

“Makkachin...I trusted you,” he panicked. Makkachin didn't look in the least ashamed, not even when the arrival of his owner made Yuuri blush and squirm.

_(relative redness = distance of Victor from me x oh my God I want to run away)_

“I'm glad I’ve got such a talented student,” purred The Cause of Yuuri's Percentage Blush Gain, looking pleased with himself. He leaned against the barrier, chin in his hands. _Is he waiting for me to answer that? What does he want me to say?_

“...I'm really nothing special -” Yuuri decided that the old responses were the best, “But I'm sure I can improve a lot with you as my coach, so thank you, I...”

He trailed off. Victor was looking at him. Really _looking_. (Yuuri wondered if you could file a Restraining Order against a pair of eyes.)

“What do you want me to be to you, Yuuri?”

Yuuri's brain went on red alert. _Everybody keep calm, act as close to normal as you can manage and we might get out of this unscathed._ _Someone find me an Answer, stat!_

“A brother? A father-figure?”

_Sir, we don't have any responses filed under the category of “Childhood-Crush-Turned-Skating-Instructor Offers to Be Our Dad”! What do we do?_

“A friend?”

_Any generic response will do, just give this poor kid something to say, dammit!_

“Um, I mean-”

“A boyfriend, then?”

_MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDA-_

“No! ...I mean,” Yuuri amended as Victor blinked at him in surprise. “I just want you...to be you, Victor. The way you are.”

As the celebrations began in Yuuri's head - _a toast to the Meaningful Conversations Department for such a great line_  - he thought he saw the show-business facade fall away from Victor's skin like a costume he'd taken off. The man left behind was dimmer and less well-defined at the edges, but far more real. He was smiling quietly.

“Well, I suppose the next step for me is to choreograph you a routine,” he said, lifting himself up from the barrier.

“What about me?” Yuuri asked, “Should I just keep practising the basics here, or-”

“You can't skate until you've got your weight down, I’m afraid.”

Ouch. Since he had come home from the Grand Prix Final of Tears, Yuuri hadn’t paid any attention to his appearance, despite knowing that the comfort-eating and avoidance of the rink weren’t exactly helping his figure.

“Yes, coach.”

He’d said it like a reflex, but it startled them both. They looked at one another, the idea solidifying that they really were doing this. They were going to be working together day in, day out, for months, wading through practise after practise after practise after practise. They were going to get to know each other far too personally.

(Well, once Yuuri had beaten up another five people.)

“Work starts next week, then.”

Victor breezed out of the Ice Castle, leaving Yuuri alone to unlace his skates, and muse over how his new coach had ended their first session.

_That last part about “call me” and “we should go out tomorrow night”...was that a skating thing too or -?_

  


Outside, back in the Real World, where Real People didn't get caught by their idols skating their World-Class Routines, it was the middle of the night and colder than expected.

The beach was devoid of light, the black ocean swallowing it down further than most people would care to think about. Those who weren't used to living so close to the shore might have called Yuuri's route home creepy, shocked by how the colour washed out with the tide leaving only raw, grey sand.

Yuuri, who was well accustomed to walking the half-mile route home at Stupid O'Clock, would have said that he preferred it that way.

_Is this what Victor meant by “long walks on the beach”?_

He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and puzzled over the perpetual weirdness that the Universe was hurling at him. Lost in confusion and fatigue, he almost didn't notice the ghostly shape perched on the nearest bollard. (Until he saw that it was fluffy. That got Yuuri’s attention.)

“Hi there,” he cooed to the kitten. It sat up haughtily, its white fur rendered dusty grey in the absence of moonlight, and turned its pink nose up at his outstretched hand.

_Touchy._ Yuuri gave kitten-taming another try. “Aren't you cold?” he asked sweetly, reaching out with his fingers with the intention of stroking the tiny white head.

But the kitten had no interest in being loved. Instead, it decided to lash its claws out at Yuuri's hand, and then run away once it had conquered its victim, silver coat flashing under the streetlights.  
  


 

“What an interesting tail, Yuuri. So, you're telling me that after your purrformance, you escaped by a whisker from a furocious cat-astrophe.”

“Stop.”

“But I haven't finished hearing all about your clawsome adventures, they're pawsitively fascinating.”

“Are you done?”

“Wait for it, wait for it- _meow_  I'm done.” Phichit finished putting on the bandaid, smiling like an artist who has completed a masterpiece instead of several Crimes Against the English Language. “So, have you texted him yet?” he added casually, getting up to put the First Aid box back in the bathroom cupboard.

“I keep telling you, I don't have his num-” A jacket-shaped projectile landed on his head and obscured the world with denim. “What did I do?”

“Check the pockets, you poor oblivious child,” came Phichit’s muffled reply.

After rooting through the contents of the jacket, which included a few receipts, a sweet-wrapper, and the smell of a party gone terribly wrong, Yuuri found the crumpled-up bit of paper. It _did_  have a phone number on it, as well as a scrawled “V” underneath that prevented Yuuri from further putting off the Dreaded Communication any longer; there was no way he could lie about it now.

He stared down at the little slip of paper in his hand. _What do I do, just text him where we're going tonight? Can you even “just text” Victor Ni-fucking-kiforov?_

Suddenly all of it came rushing back: exactly how much time, accurate to the millisecond, he had spent thinking about this one guy, throughout his whole twenty-three years of existence. And he was holding...his phone number...in his hand. He had no idea what to do.

_No, it's_ him _who has no idea! I have posters of his face on my old bedroom walls! I can't let Victor Nikiforov date a fan, that would be so wrong! What if I just fanboy about his skating the entire time? What if I'm actually one of those creepy stalker types deep down inside? Oh my God, I so am, otherwise I wouldn't have thought that. I have to protect him from me, I have to text him not to do this. I'm sorry Victor, it's too dangerous. ...But that means I’ll still have to text him-_

Yuuri slumped down with his back against the fridge, next to where his flat-mate was being helped to make a cup of coffee by two of his hamsters. (Their help mostly consisted of looking into the empty mug and then falling into it, but they had it down to an art.)

“Isn't it weird though,” he mused aloud, still staring at the note, “how Victor left nothing on this to tell me about his Seven Deadly Exes?”

“They're _Rivals_ , not Exes,” corrected Phichit. “Otherwise he would have put seven 'x's. There aren't any symbols that mean 'rival'. Isn't that right, script-writer?”

[The script-writer looked up from her laptop and nodded quickly, wanting to divert attention away from her terrible lack of symbol-knowledge and back to the story.]

“Look,” Phichit sat down on the floor, lovingly placing a hamster on Yuuri's head. “If you really want this, you'll have to fight for it. Break out the 'P' word.”

“Poodle?"

“The other 'P' word.”

“...Poodles?”

“You've gotta be kitten me. _Yuuri_ . Positivity!” Phichit grinned, “You've got this! The guy asked you to _call him!_  This is Victor, remember? That one guy you might have had a teeny-tiny crush on that one time?”

Yuuri smiled grudgingly and met his best friend's eyes. “Just that one time.”

“So text him the details of where we're going, and let's get you dressed to knock his Niki-socks-off!”

Smiling to himself, Yuuri opened up his phone, and followed Phichit to their joint wardrobe, before he realised he didn't actually know where they were going that evening.

“There's a JJ Leroy fashion show, and I’ve been invited to go _for work!_ ” came the proud explanation, between various shirts that were held up to Yuuri's chest and then discarded. “Honestly, I don't think my boss knows how huge a gift she's given me.”

“...Who's JJ Leroy?”

  


“ _JJ Leroy?!_  Only the ex-champion figure skater turned ex-lead-singer turned ex-solo artist turned high-fashion designer!” Minami threw his phone across his bedroom, before retrieving it to continue stalking @phichit+chu on Instagram.

Phichit was going with Yuuri to a fashion show, _the_  fashion show of the season. And if they were going, so was he.

The shining 2014-edition Yuuri Katsuki beamed down at him from the poster on his wall. The expression on his glossy face told such a different story from the real Yuuri, who always looked like something was holding him back from the inside. He was so mysterious.

He hadn’t even explained why he had quit as Minami’s coach, though it had been obvious: he didn’t believe that his student was capable enough. _’m sorry, Yuuri. I’ll work harder, I promise. I’ll become the best I can be. I’ll show you for real this time!_

He dived out of the room and rushed down the stairs. “Mum! I need a ride! ...Yes, it’s _important!"_  


 

“Doesn’t ‘VIP’ mean ‘important?,” asked Yuuri warily. They were boxed in on all sides by rows of Other Human Beings; the only thing between the three of them and and the crowds was a flimsy red-cord fence.

He still couldn’t believe that there _were_ three of them.

Victor had answered Yuuri’s text almost immediately with four words (“I'll see you there”) and five emojis. Some people might have thought that this was excessive, but Yuuri’s Brain interpreted it differently - he’d raised Victor two emojis in his next message, just to be on the safe side.

They’d picked him up in their cab on their way to the arena. Yuuri had placed a silent curse upon future Chulanont generations for making him sit in the middle seat, thereby increasing the probability of physical contact between himself and his new coach. (This calculated way of thinking stopped him from having an internal haemorrhage every time he remembered that the arm squashed up against his belonged to the one, the only, the Russian Guy He Had Crushed On For Literal Years, Victor Nikiforov.)

But he had survived, and now here they all were, in what Phichit explained was “the press area, which means we’re not just important, we’re actually important _for the sake of the people._  See?” he gushed at his phone, “JJ’s twitter just posted another countdown picture! This is going to be so good, I can tell.”

“Can you?” Yuuri murmured. What he was seeing looked far less interesting. The waves of people kept breaking against a raised circular platform in the middle of the outdoor arena, mirroring the faux-stone Grecian archways that formed the outer circle. _How do you even transport a massive circular wall? Massive circular truck?_

Apparently though, more was to come; the most mysterious part about this whole bizarre affair was the black curtain around the centre platform, obscuring from sight the inevitable strangeness behind it. The crowds kept pushing up against the curtain, like fish behind aquarium glass. Yuuri could see the tension building, a metallic haze over people’s heads that threatened to rain down at any moment.

“Wasn’t this supposed to be a fashion show?” he tried to shout to Phichit, who was scribbling frantically into his jotter. “It looks more like a cult!”

His voice stood no chance against the yelling of the crowds; it was muffled, swept away, drowned out or swallowed up by the thousands of other sounds competing for dominance.

Victor, who had been standing beside Yuuri the whole time, murmured, “JJ never was very subtle.”

Yuuri turned to him, suspicion rising in his gut, but at that precise moment all the lights went out.

A deep, humming bassline snaked between people’s feet, tying them to the spot as they stood stunned by the sound. It slowly rose in volume, deliberately squeezing out as much anticipation as possible like a musical boa constrictor, until the shining strum of an electric guitar made them all gasp.

The darkness was slashed apart by white searchlight beams that swooped down over the audience. Strangers’ faces were visible for a few seconds before the lights pinwheeled back up into the sky, igniting shouts of awe. Yuuri wondered who was operating those lights, and how many many shots they had taken before turning them on.

It was at this point that his Brain decided it would be a good idea to get into personal specifics with The Master of The Quadruple Flip (who was also his date but Yuuri was refusing to think about that for fear of spontaneous combustion).

“You know JJ?” he asked, trying and failing to be casual about it. There was nothing casual about shouting over the noise of a thousand-strong crowd.

“...I know him.” Yuuri squinted through the strobe lights; it was almost impossible to see Victor’s face, but he could tell that those penetrating blue eyes were fixed on his own, waiting to gage his reaction. _What’s he so scared of? Did I miss something?_

By now, the crowd was wild. The tension in the air was palpable; something had to give.

 

And then:

 

“Oh yeah?”

The black curtains billowed outward. An enormous hidden fan began to blow steam across the audience, like a mass exfoliation.

“ _Know?_ ” prompted Yuuri, wanting to make absolutely sure.

“Oh yeah?” came the disembodied voice. _If there was ever a voice that sounded like a smirk…_  A white platform was spinning up over the tops of the curtains, the stage still in shadow but for the sudden dazzles of the strobe lights.

Victor looked at Yuuri, wincing a little. “ _Know_ ,” he affirmed.

“OH YEAH! IT’S...JJ STYLE!”” shouted the voice, a silhouette at the top of the platform reclining on a throne that Yuuri hoped was ironic. Judging by the almost tearful screams of the crowd, this guy was probably A-list royalty.

“Oh no,” he just had time to murmur, before everything went a little bit insane.

 

All at once the curtains vanished. In their place were twelve stunning models, who each sported an outrageous outfit of a different colour, all of them holding up ‘JJ’ fingers. In the middle of the colour wheel, at the top of his ivory tower, sat the man himself, JJ Leroy, on a _yup, non-ironic_ golden throne, with the most superfluously large megaphone Yuuri had ever seen.

“I opened two gifts this morning!” his #inspiring voice blasted out over the audience’s heads, “They were my eyes! And I don’t know about you, but I like what I’m seeing-”

As this Giant of Figure-Skating, Bad Pop Music, and now Haute-Couture and Egotism spoke (read: proclaimed his own brilliance into a Giant Voice-Projection Device), the twelve models began to parade round the tower, hair billowing in the artificial wind. Yuuri watched as the lights revealed JJ’s green Elvis-style jumpsuit, complete with arrogant quiff.

“When nothing goes right, go left! Your life is your canvas! Do or do not; there is no try!” came the meaningfully meaningless announcements. At the same time, Victor and Yuuri’s sector of the catwalk was presented with first a young woman wearing only yellow feathers - _like a ‘sexy Big Bird’ Halloween costume_  - an orange top hat that covered not only the wearer’s head but their entire body, and a man whose red costume looked like someone had thrown a cordon-fence at him. Yuuri briefly considered adding to it.

_Is this just ‘too cool’ for me or is it actually that bad?_

He wasn’t even surprised when the Motivational Moron jumped out of his throne, and proceeded to continue shouting nonsense through the megaphone while flying over the catwalk,Tinkerbell-fashion.

And then JJ’s theme song came on.  


 

 

About an hour and another hundred ridiculous outfits later, they were backstage. Phichit had said that The Genius wouldn’t mind if Yuuri and Victor came along for the interview, as long as they didn’t interrupt. Victor had looked a little nauseous, but Yuuri had shrugged and followed his best friend to the barrier at the end of the catwalk.

_It’s obviously going to happen anyway,_  Yuuri thought, resigning himself to another quasi-supernatural Fight to the Death. _Might as well get it over with._  All the same, he couldn’t help his surprise at his new coach’s lack of faith in him; he’d known what he was signing up for when he’d said he’d defeat the Rivals.

Apparently awkward silences with fashion designers and their girlfriends was part of the package. JJ Leroy had such an overly-charming persona onstage; Yuuri hadn’t foreseen the intense staring match that was now soundlessly raging through the dimly-lit room.

Himself, Victor and Phichit were crowded onto one cruddy sofa, directly facing JJ and a very beautiful brunette - _she’s a model, isn’t she?_  - who watched them from their far more hygienic seats. They were also joined by several other versions of the ex-skater-turned-ex-band-member-turned-ex-solo-artist-turned-designer, as posters of him stared down from every wall.

“So, JJ,” Phichit began nervously, “How do you feel the show went?”

The smirking interviewee didn’t even blink. “It was spectacular. Wasn’t it, Victor?”

“We should leave.” Yuuri felt Victor’s breath in his ear, but filed the suitable blush away for another time. All of his focus was on holding his nerve, and he couldn’t do that if he broke eye contact with the Professional Smugness Generator sat opposite him.

“You had your first run at Fashion Week this year, pretty impressive for such a new designer,” Phichit pressed on, determined.

JJ put his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders. “Yeah, well you shouldn’t expect any less from a king, am I right?” (By now, Yuuri was certain the woman was a model. He could tell by the way her glowing skin reflected actual light onto the wall.) “I met an old friend there, as a matter of fact. Christophe?”

Yuuri heard Victor stifle the smallest gasp, and JJ’s eyes flashed, victorious. _Who’s Christophe? Another rival? Someone so integral to the plot that the scriptwriter can no longer hide their identity?_

[The scriptwriter narrowed her eyes at Yuuri, then wrote a new character into the scene before anyone else noticed the gaping hole in the fourth wall.]

Suddenly the door behind them was flung open. All the eyes latched onto the intruder.

“Yuuri! ...Um, I mean-”

It was Minami. _Can this situation get any more awkward?_  The boy turned crimson once he’d sensed the tension, and resorted to fidgeting where he stood next to Phichit’s seat on the sofa. With Embarrassment levels this high, Yuuri was sure that this seat would be his final resting place. _Death by Social Discomfort. It has a ring to it._

He could feel Victor sitting stiffly upright beside him, clearly just as thrilled about the situation as he was.

“So...Victor and Yuuri, eh?” the Sparkling Douchebag began again.

“What of it?” Victor’s voice was icicle-sharp.

Yuuri wasn’t going to surrender his end of the staring match by moving, but _he basically just said we were a thing! And now he’s defending the thing that he just said we were!_

“Oh, nothing. You guys make a cute couple. Suit. Each other.” It turned out that even The Personified Antithesis of Subtlety could do the icy-voice thing.

“JJ…” came Minami’s strangled little voice from beside the sofa, “I bought your first solo album.”

“Victor, I like your outfit. ‘Comfortable’ is so _in_.” JJ didn’t miss a beat, his eyes flashing a dare across the gulf between sofas.

“Do you think, JJ, that you would have got as much success as you have without-”

“How many questions left before I can talk to the _really_  interesting people here?”

Phichit was stunned. He sat back, notebook falling into his lap. “You used to be my role model,” he said disbelievingly.

“We really should go,” Victor murmured to Yuuri again, but before they could get up to leave, Minami sprang forward, staring at Victor in horror:

 

“You noticed the senpai who noticed _me!_ ”

 

There was a loud _whump_ , and the kid suddenly pitched forward, scarlet splattering the walls.

Phichit moved fastest; he caught Minami before he hit the ground. Yuuri stood, breath bated, as his best friend gently coaxed the groaning kid back to consciousness.

But when he looked back up at the Human Smirk on the opposite sofa, it was as though nothing had happened.

“…You punched the highlights out of his hair,” Phichit intoned, voice trembling as though he was speaking a curse, before turning back to Yuuri, tearful. “ _He punched the highlights out of his hair!_ ”

And so he had. The glorious red plume at the front of Minami’s beautiful blonde crown was now dripping down the walls like the blood of a martyr.

“Unforgivable,” Victor breathed, his eyes wide, “Hair is sacred…”

Phichit scooped up the shuddering boy, and helped him out of the back-room, throwing one final defiant glance back at JJ, who had barely moved at all.

“What?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “He interrupted my interview.”

“That’s _it!_ ” Yuuri slammed his fist against the wall, unable to hold back any longer. _For once I actually want to beat up my opponent._  “You cocky cock! You’ll pay for your crimes against humanity!” He dove forward, throwing his weight behind a punch-

 

-and found that he couldn’t move. An unearthly red light was emanating from JJ’s outstretched palm, coagulating into a web of tiny dots that twined around Yuuri’s arm like a creeper.

“Your eyes…” he spluttered. _His eyes glow red? What is he, a robot?_

Yuuri felt himself being lifted into the air as the Possibly-A-Cyborg Designer and his girlfriend stood up, smiling their most conceited smiles.

“Didn’t you know?” the woman spoke for the first time, “JJ’s Canadian.”

“Canadi-”

Yuuri didn’t have time to finish the word, as the red ropes began to tighten around his neck. He could only gasp as this Terror of the Northern Hemisphere’s eyes flashed brighter, ensnaring him in their crimson glow.

_He’s so considerate, suspending me in the air like this...But he’s choking me! ...But he’s so kind, look at his sweet smile… No! What is this?_

“Disarming, isn’t it? How _nice_ we Canadians are?” JJ flicked his wrist casually, sending Yuuri flying up into the ceiling, where the red dots suddenly disappeared, and he came crashing back down, bruised but at least clear-headed.

“Can’t anyone be Canadian, though? You just have to be born there, right?”

The Red-Eyed Moose Lover outright laughed. “Did you hear that, Isabella? ‘You just have to be born there’, eh? Clearly, he knows nothing about the Maple Syrup Cache.”

“Marple Serum Cash?” Yuuri felt Victor lift him to his feet. “What the fuck is a Marvel Pseudo Crash?” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth, but his worried-looking date had no time to reply.

“The Maple Syrup Cache is the reason we Canadians are so very sweet,” declared JJ, who was one of those Annoying People Who Overhears Conversations. He jerked his wrist. The red dots shot out once more and pulled Yuuri close enough that they were nose-to-nose. _Even his powers are a knock-off. Is he supposed to be Spiderman now?_  “You know how most people are mean when they’re tired? Canadians can absorb the sugar from the world’s maple tree sap, so their brains have extra sugar for energy.”

“...What?”

“...So we’re never tired, so we’re always nice to people,” snapped Isabella, tossing her ever-so-perfect hair. But Yuuri barely heard her.

_Everything’s hazy...can’t concentrate…_

The pull of those red, red eyes was too potent… He could feel the bad impressions of this  Monarch of All Things Garish drifting out of conscious grasp. A barrage of kindness flooded his senses.

_...He’s so...considerate...polite...affectionate… I should be...I should be more like JJ…_

Yuuri stared into the depths, his mind empty.

_I should be more like JJ...The kind of guy Victor wants…Someone he really_ deserves _..._

 

Suddenly he swamped in his mind’s eye, as though Yuuri were watching his memories from a cinema seat. He was transported back to that fateful night, only a few thousand years ago, when he had first seen Victor Nikiforov holding a red cup of beer. There stood Victor, his back to the wall, looking like a living legend in a thousand-dollar suit and surrounded by adoring fans.

_Look at him. He’s flawless._  

It was true. Against the backdrop of the low-lit apartment, Victor was a vision, a personification of the heights of beauty and talent that no one else could hope to reach. He was backlit by everyone else’s projected dreams.

_Including your own. Look at yourself, standing here with your tongue hanging out. Did you ever expect to even meet this guy? Or were you just going to worship him and pretend that that was going to get you anywhere?_

Yuuri stared down at his feet despondently. _I_ _could go over and talk to him. No, I shouldn’t. He’d never listen to me, and anyway, what would I say?_

_...But, this is just a memory, isn’t it?_

_I did talk to him in real life...didn’t I?_

“Please, no autographs, I’m ‘off-duty’ tonight,” Victor was saying to the pressing crowd of drunk twenty-somethings. But they took no notice, spilling into his personal space and beyond, literally pushing him into the wall. “Oh, if only there was someone who could help me!” he cried, looking pointedly over at Yuuri, who was still glued to the spot.

“Have no fear, my love!” came a shout from above. Yuuri looked up; he already knew what he would see: the roof had disappeared, and down from the superbly starry night sky swooped a figure all in green, complete with cape and self-satisfied smirk -

“ _JJ!_ ” Princess Victor swooned, “Thank goodness!” He reached out a graceful arm, eyes soft. “I knew you would come for me!”

Something inside Yuuri told him that the Victor _he_ knew would never be so melodramatic, and that these so-called ‘memories’ might have been messed with by a certain someone with mind-control powers. However, this particular _something_ was so deeply smothered by dismay and self-disgust that he didn’t take it into consideration.

_Of course he’d want someone like JJ, he’s so good-looking and talented. There’s someone who understands how the world works and doesn’t hide from his problems._

He watched, powerless, as the couple flew off and JJ’s laughter faded into the distance.

_...Victor… Victor deserves better. Better than me, anyway._

The picture before him began to fizzle out, blackness closing in on all sides.

Yuuri couldn’t have cared less. There was very little that he cared about, now that he came to think about it.

 

Very little at all.

 

And then:

  
  


“Yuuri!”

 

He felt himself surface, gasping, and found Victor’s hands anchoring him back in the real world.

“It wasn’t real, Yuuri, it wasn’t real, it wasn’t real,” Victor murmured, fingers trailing feather-light over Yuuri’s cheekbones. “I was so worried. He nearly..he nearly had you-”

“Victor?” Yuuri sat up, slurring a little - _apparently Black Holes of Despair make you feel dizzy, who knew?_  - “Tell me how you met JJ.”

His coach looked desperate. The startling blue eyes seemed to hold a whole ocean, ready to sweep him away, back to safety, back to normal. But Yuuri wasn’t naive enough to believe that ‘normal’ would ever involve a record-breaking gold medalist as his coach.

“I have to do this, Victor,” he said quietly, surprising himself as he gently lifted Victor’s hands away from his face. “I told you I would, didn’t I?”

When Yuuri looked back on the moments in time he fell harder for Victor Nikiforov, strung out like a paperchain, this one was the third. Being able to watch, up close, as the panic on Victor’s face melted into a grin of steely determination, Yuuri realised a dream he hadn’t known he had.

“Yes,” said this Genius of Movement, this beautiful man that Yuuri was going to fight a Fashion Gorgon for, “Yes, you did.”

 

_I was a Junior competitor by then, 16 years old and on top of the world. JJ was a year younger, the rising talent who would overtake me someday. The media liked to pit us against each other - they still do, as a matter of fact. When we met at a competition for the first time, our every move was scrutinised. Neither of us had any idea what to do; there was so much pressure riding on how each of us would react that in the end dating seemed like the easiest option, don’t ask me why. It was only after we’d gone out a couple of times that we realised how little we had in common. I thought JJ was arrogant; he found me aloof. I went on to beat him at Worlds, and we’ve been rivals ever since._

 

“Oh _please_ , Victor, are we done with the tragic backstory?” Yuuri turned to see JJ walking towards them, the rhinestones on his jumpsuit winking like weird little eyes. “As some guy on the internet once said, ‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.’” 

“Lao Tzu,” said Yuuri, standing to meet his foe for Round 2.

“Sorry, what?”

“Lao Tzu. He’s the one who said that.” The anger was flooding back to Yuuri’s brain; he ran at The Vogue Mogul, not bothering to register the red glowing eyes, “ _Credit the authors you quote, you fucking idiot!_ ”

JJ scoffed, unfazed by the fully-grown man charging at his face. “Oh, that bothers you? Well then, I’m _S_ _ORRY!_ ”

A flash of the briefest impact, and then Yuuri was hurled backwards by an invisible hammer-blow. _What on earth-?_ He seemed to be watching from above as his poor body was thrown through not one, not two, but _three_  brick walls, leaving a distinctly Yuuri-shaped hole in each one.

_Am I having an out-of-body experience? Really? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s great, I just thought I’d had enough brain-related weirdness for one day, what with the Orwellian mind-control and everything._ _And why are there so many brick walls in a freaking stadium?_

_Also, just to check, when I return to the Physical World...it’s going to hurt, isn’t it?_

It did.

 

Yuuri, body somehow still intact, smashed into a refreshments table with a final _whack_ , knocking snacks and overpriced drinks flying.

_Seriously, Out-Of-Body Experience? You couldn’t have just waited until the trajectory was finished?_

As usual, his appeal fell entirely flat, much like he himself had done.

Through the rubble and dust, he saw the floating red outline of JJ LeRobot, his fingers in those oh-so-irritating ‘JJ’ shapes.

“Most powerful word in the Canadian language, ‘sorry’. Did you know that, nerd?” his voice boomed through the three wall-craters. Yuuri could see the red glare reflecting off his teeth; he wondered if he’d get a consolation prize for beating almost half of the Rivals in the Alliance, because there was no way he would win against this one.

_And when I die, think only this of me: that there will be some bowl in the world that is forever full of katsudon._

Apparently JJ was too impatient to negotiate a levitation route through the broken walls; he strutted through the open door next to them instead.

“Your will is broken,” his smug (and now victorious) voice reverberated through Yuuri’s brain. “You’re through.”

There was a sticky _squish_  as Yuuri rolled over some of the uneaten snacks left by the audience (46% of whom were now on self-enforced diets after having stared at Society’s Ideal Body Type for over an hour). He knew that he couldn’t win now, but he was enough of a romantic to flirt with the idea of going down fighting.

“How about we toast to your victory?” he said, holding out one of two plates of not-too-smushed pancakes he’d fished from the wreckage. “Maple syrup, a la The Floor?”

The Kitsch Tycoon raised one millionaire’s eyebrow. “Seriously? Didn’t you get that I’m tele- teleper- that I can read your mind?!” He scoffed. “I know that you’ve put golden syrup on one of those to make me break the Code of the Cache. I’ll take the Canadian option, thanks.”

Yuuri let the second disposable plate be pulled from his grasp, and watched as JJ took a large in-your-face bite of pancake.

“Actually, _mon ami_ ,” he began quietly, “the maple syrup’s on this plate. I just thought really hard about putting it on that one, in my mind’s eye or whatever.”

“You what?” The red laser-glow faded from JJ’s eyes, and his feet landed on the ground with a soft _thud_.

Yuuri smiled, innocently. “You just tasted golden syrup, my friend.”

 

The door, which had been Rudely Left Ajar on JJ’s way in, was now Obscenely Slammed Into The Wall by two strangers in red body armour.

“Canadian Heat!” shouted the first man, flashing everyone a Red Maple Leaf badge. “Nobody move!”

“Damn, Hudson,” his partner interrupted, “It looks like we got here just in time.” He stared at JJ, whose mouth was still frozen mid-chew.

“You’re right, Abbott,” said Hudson gravely. Without breaking his impeccable Epic Squint Stare, he flipped open a tiny notepad. “Jean-Jacques Leroy, the Canadian Heat are charging you with Canadianity Violation. Code #827: Imbibing of golden syrup.”

“Bmph dmph mph-”

“Get that atrocity out of your mouth, Leroy, then we’ll talk,” snapped Abbott.

JJ swallowed the mouthful of pancake (which, Yuuri noticed, made the two officers wince simultaneously), before trying again: “Don’t I get like three strikes or something? It’s only my first offence, right?”

Hudson glanced at his own undersized jotter. “On January 3rd you knowingly skipped the streaming of an NHL game,” he took a deep breath, “For a reason _other than illness._  Hold it together, Abbott!” The other officer’s top lip stopped trembling obediently.

“So what, that’s two offences-” JJ began, but Hudson silenced him with a single raised eyebrow. _Even their eyebrows are buff_ , thought Yuuri, impressed.

“Recent investigations have revealed, Mr Leroy, that your home rink is-,” the officer broke off, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You can do this, bro, you’ve got this,” murmured Abbott, clapping his partner on the back.

“It’s just...it’s been a long day, y’know?”

“I know, I know, buddy. Let’s get this over with, then we can go watch all of your favourite YouTube moose videos, hm?”

Hudson looked at him gratefully, before turning back to JJ, all steel.

“Offence number three: your home rink is in _Alaska_.”

The Quiffed Disgrace stared at the officers in bewilderment. “Hang on, no it isn-”

“We got it from the scriptwriter, dude, it ain’t gonna change.”

[The scriptwriter nodded emphatically, feeling a little smug that JJ had only broken three walls, when she had broken four. Yuuri flashed her a quick thumbs-up.]

Both officers raised their Maple Leaf Badges to eye-level. Abbott blinked away a manly tear.

“UnCanadifier ray!”

Everything happened in slow motion. Red light coursed off of JJ’s body in waves, sucked back into the Heat’s badges. JJ being JJ of course wouldn't go down without a theatrical send-off, and he yelled out the loudest “NOOOOOOO” that Yuuri had ever heard.

_Actually, I don't think I've ever heard a real person say that at all. ...Does JJ count as a real person? Maybe more ‘sur’-real._

The pulses of light began to fade, leaving JJ on his knees. His quiff had gone limp.

This was Yuuri’s cue to move.

He got up from the pile of junk food and strode over to stand in front of the Third Evil Rival -

“You once were a Canada. Now you’re just nada.”

JJ paused. “I was a Canada?”

 

Then Yuuri headbutted him into a katsudon.

  


“I’m really starting to wonder if this is cannibalism...but then I take another bite and don’t care,” said Victor, munching happily as they walked side-by-side in the dark. Soon after the Heat had left, Victor had found Yuuri still brushing off cake crumbs, and insisted on calling him a taxi.

“Yeah, its addictive. My mom used to reward me with a bowlful whenever I won a competition.” Yuuri smiled a little at the memory, before remembering who he was talking to, i.e. someone who knew much more than he did about competitions and winning them.

_Oh gosh, I’m standing next to a legend, who I actually forgot was a legend, I totally didn’t even register that, oh gosh-_

“Yuuri.”

The name startled him out of his Spiral of Desperate Panic. “Huh?”

Sometime a few thoughts ago, Victor had stopped in the middle of the pavement. He was staring at Yuuri, a half-smile playing about his Cupid’s-bow lips.

The nearest streetlight stood a few metres away, blocked by trees, so Yuuri wasn’t exactly sure why Victor looked like he was glowing from the inside. There was a haze in the air, a haze of…a  _something_.

“I said, have you thought about what you want your theme to be for this season?” Victor put his head on one side, “I’m curious. Plus, I need an idea if I’m going to choreograph something relevant.”

_Ah. This is one of those situations where I have No Idea What To Say._

Yuuri’s Brain, as usual, was on hiatus, but he decided to give speaking his best shot anyway.

“I-I,” he stuttered, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, “I hadn’t thought about it yet. D-do you have any suggestions, as my coach, I mean.”

Those dynamite-blue eyes sparkled. “I thought you’d never ask.” Yuuri’s heart began to flutter as Victor told him to come to the rink in a few days time, “after a little more muscle build-up on your part.”

There was a minute of silence as each of them drifted. Yuuri supposed it was the darkness that made it so comfortable to think in the same space; no rush to hide everything when it was already obscure. _Somehow, I know that that will change soon. I don’t want to hide everything from Victor forever._

_I don’t want to hide from Victor_ , he realised with gentle surprise. In a spur of sudden courage, he decided to _for once_ initiate a conversation:

“So are all of your dates this…” he searched for a word, “explosive?”

Victor laughed - a stream of champagne bubbles, a song Yuuri hadn’t heard before but recognised. “I’d be the first to admit that I don’t go on many dates.”

This was a new development. “But you’re...I mean you’re…”

Victor looked at him, expecting the same name drop he had heard countless times, as though his full title somehow held the key to his whole being. It was ok, he’d expected this, he’d have to get past it with Yuuri just as with any other person-

“Fascinating!”

_Great, now he’s staring. Explain yourself, Compliments and Romance Department._

(The C&R Dpt. of Yuuri’s Brain was in fact, almost always off-duty, so their excuse of inexperience though unhelpful was still valid.)

“Not like, as in, not like you’re some sort of specimen to be watched, oh my god I mean-”

“Yuuri.” Victor stepped closer, until there was only the briefest flutter of breaths between them. “No one has ever done this much for me before.” His fingers brushed across Yuuri’s wrists - did he feel that rushing pulse? - and began to fit themselves into his hands, like perfect jigsaw pieces.

His face was an inch away, and Yuuri knew, he just _knew_ , that he had gone beetroot red. _What was that earlier about not wanting to hide anything from Victor? How about “anything except my red face”?_

“How do we want to end this date, then?” Victor was murmuring, but there was no way that Yuuri could answer that question, not when their hands were intertwined. Victor’s hair was brushing the top of his head, his lips were barely a weight-shift away. Not now. He couldn’t answer now.

“Here?” It came out as a squeak.

_YOU RUINED IT YOU’VE FUCKING RUINED IT YOU RUINER HOW DARE-_

“Sure.”

“...What?”

This man, this _magician_ , who could saw Yuuri in half and reassemble him with a word, had the audacity to look casual about it. “I won’t force you into anything, Yuuri.” His eyes danced - Yuuri briefly wondered if sparks could travel from iris to iris at close range. “I like you. I want you to like me, too. I can wait.”

Then there were a few short aeons spent in silence.

 

They only stood face-to-face, they only touched.

They looked at one another.

_I think I...I think I’m okay with this. I’m really, really okay with this._

  


Eventually, when the taxi arrived, Yuuri had become so light-headed as to be buoyant, and had to weigh himself down with thoughts of Minami’s disappointment in him so he could walk on solid ground. But his happiness refused to be dulled.

“Hmmm, Yuuri? Do you love him yet?” came the groggy mumble from the other side of the mattress on the floor of their tiny, rubbishy flat.

“Shut up.”

“I’m wearing green to your wedding, just so you know.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i make no apologies for anything in this fic, not the lame jokes, not the puns, not the terrible fourth-wall breaks. nope i have no regrets. this whole thing is pure silliness - i hope you're finding it entertaining so far <3
> 
> please drop me a comment to tell me what you think! ^-^ any and all feedback is always appreciated

**Author's Note:**

> stalk me if you want @where-his-towel-is on ze tumbles (or dont, cuz i say things like that)


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